


Legacy

by Enonem



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Endor, Gen, Politics, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 12:30:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12276510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enonem/pseuds/Enonem
Summary: Thirty years after the battle of Endor, a disillusioned (and very much alive) Piett visits the site of the battle in search of he doesn't even know what. He finds answers to questions he had never asked.





	Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> Or "In which the fic writer pushes her grumpy-old-man-like narrative opinions onto an actual grumpy old man."
> 
> This fic originated from a conversation with a friend about a year and a half ago. It's been long in the making and long in the uploading, but here it is!

Twigs and dead leaves snapped softly under his feet as Piett made his way through the endless forest. The noise was enough to make him twitchy. He had never been on the surface before, but he remembered all too well the reports about what the native population of Endor could and would do to intruders. But perhaps they would not consider an old man a threat and they would leave him alone. He had always been good at making himself unremarkable.

Why had he come?

He had spent the last three decades in serene anonymity, with a new name and a new life. As far as anyone but his own sister was concerned, he had died when his ship had gone down.

He felt a pang at the memory of the Executor and her demise and cursed himself mentally. He had barely had a thought to spare for the Empire and the war for some twenty years now and it had worked quite well for him. What did he have to come here for?

 _Because it's the thirtieth anniversary of the battle and you're ashamed of yourself_ , a voice in his head provided.

He sighed and kept walking.

It wasn’t long before the wrecks appeared. Mostly fallen AT-STs, caved in and overgrown with vegetation. His first instinct was to ignore them and walk on; then he remembered that this was what he had come for. He slowed down to look at them as he walked past, thinking he should be having some profound reflection but without any idea what to reflect on.

As he was beginning to feel stupid, the memories pounced.

His years of service passed before him, along with the faces of a string of superiors and subordinates, rivals and friends.

He looked out for charred pieces of debris, wondering if any of them had been part of the Lady.

"Blast it!" His vision blurred.

~

Once he had composed himself, he continued his progress until he reached the shield generator. Or what was left of it at any rate.

The explosion thirty years before and the planet itself afterwards had done their job and what was left was an overgrown mess. But the forest had not entirely reclaimed the area yet and there were only a few trees around.

Piett went as deep in the clearing as he could reach, took a bracing breath and looked up.  
The sky was clear and all he could see was blue. But thirty years ago the sight must have been quite different. He pictured the irregular bulk of the unfinished Death Star. Grey, ugly and menacing, fixed in the sky above him. Around it, barely visible to the naked eye, there would have been the fleet, his fleet. With the Lady Ex, sleek, beautiful and lethal at its lead.

Before he could stop it, the battle began playing out in his fantasy. Not as it had happened, but as it ought to have.

_His fleet, never hidden, deploys in defence of the unfinished station. When the Rebel fleet appears, the battle outcome is clear. His ships move in perfect formation, now chasing the enemy and now cutting off their escape. The Rebels give a good fight, led by a skilful admiral. It becomes a game between the two commanders, but ultimately the Rebel fleet succumbs. A valiant victory for the Death Squadron._

Piett looked at the empty sky, filling it with ghosts, until his eyes hurt and he began to see dark shapes.

He blinked. There _was_ something up there. A ship? The dark dot grew larger and larger very quickly.

"Shit, someone's landing."

He did not want to be found, chances were that whoever that was would have no interest in an old Imperial… he tried not to think of the word 'deserter'; however, in this place, on this day, those chances were minimal.

He was far from his own ship and, deep down, he was curious. He made his way back to the cover offered by the surrounding forest and - there is no other way of saying it - he hid.

Before long the ship landed right next to the ruins. Piett’s stomach dropped when the vessel folded its wings upon landing. It was uncomfortably reminiscent of the old Lambda shuttles, if rather larger.

The vessel had not been on the ground a full minute before a tall dark figure emerged from within and strode away, without hesitation, straight for the forest. Whoever it was, they were covered from head to toe with a black robe and cowl and they wore a full-head helmet, giving no indication about the identity of the person underneath. Something about the figure was inexplicably irritating.

Moved by a curiosity he did not think he had anymore, Piett cautiously followed.

The stranger’s fast pace had given them a considerable head start, but it had also created a trail that even a blind man (or someone unaccustomed to spot forest trails) could follow.

Eventually, sooner than expected, the dark figure appeared again, standing still in the distance. Piett moved away from the trail and quietly made his way as close as he dared to observe the scene from a small gap in the vegetation.

The stranger was standing in front of some kind of wooden construction that had small plants growing on and around it. What made Piett’s jaw drop was that the plants were moving. Violently shooting away from the mound, in fact, as if ripped by an invisible hand. There were not many left when he arrived and very soon the mound was clear enough that Piett could see what was on top of it. It made all thoughts of flying vegetation disappear from his mind.

A humanoid form was lying on top of what was now obviously a funeral pyre. Charred and distorted by fire, the features were still unmistakable.

Darth Vader.

Piett was dizzy with sudden questions and conflicting emotions as he looked at the remains of his former commander. While he tried to sort through his thoughts, the hooded figure gave a final slash with their hand and the last of the branches flew off the pyre. Piett realised now that this person had cleared away years of overgrowth with the same power Lord Vader had displayed multiple times.

He clenched his hands at the memory of his colleagues grasping helplessly at their throats before falling dead. He remembered when he himself had lived with a near constant phantom tingling around his neck, waiting for the same to happen to him.

 _But it never did, did it?_ Days and months had passed since his promotion to admiral without Vader making so much as an attempt on his life, his threats had slowly become less frequent and eventually even the fear had left. By the end working with Lord Vader had been easy, even comfortable, in a way. Piett suddenly felt a surge of what it took him a few moments to recognise as pride.

Meanwhile, the stranger had approached the pyre and was speaking. Piett was too far to make out individual words, but the voice was enough to identify the person as a man.

Not that it told Piett anything. Who was this man? How had he found Vader’s resting place? Hell, how did Vader even have a grave at all? Had he not been on the Death Star when it exploded?

He had a sudden desire to approach the stranger and just ask him. He hesitated. He would have to reveal his identity and anyone visiting Vader’s pyre was very likely to resent former Admiral Piett for surviving the battle that had killed the Supreme Commander and then going into hiding. At least if his own self-loathing was any indication.

Before he could make up his mind, the masked man fell quiet. He reached out, took Vader’s head in his hands and ripped it off the solidified ash and the rest of the armour before carefully placing it in a box he had on the ground.

Piett’s fist tightened again, this time with shock and fury. He watched with wide eyes as the man looked at the pyre one last time before he turned on his heels and walked away the way he had come, carrying Lord Vader’s head with him.

Piett did not move, in case the man was still close enough to spot him. He forced himself to breathe slowly and process what he had just witnessed.

He did not know what to think. In his present outrage he wondered how much of a grudge the man must hold against Vader to hunt down and mutilate his corpse (or his suit, since the body inside had probably long since turned to dust) thirty years from his death. Yet Piett had not seen any anger, on the contrary, the man had been moving slowly and carefully, almost reverentially. So perhaps he had not come for a trophy but for- what? A relic? For some reason found the idea uncomfortable.

Once he was confident he could not be seen anymore, Piett pushed speculation away from his mind and approached the pyre himself.

He remembered well his feeling of awe the first time he had been in Lord Vader's presence. A feeling which had persisted for a long time after that, before he learned his way around the man, around his anger and his incomprehensible motives. It was a very different emotion from what he felt standing here. To think that Vader had lain here all this time, in this peaceful place, with plants growing around him. The contrast with the man he had been was so intense Piett could scarcely believe his own eyes.

And yet he found himself smiling. As far as he could see, the wood had been piled inexpertly, but the body placed on top of it with great care. Vader had not been burnt into oblivion. Someone had given him a funeral. Someone who respected him. Perhaps even loved him.

But this, the scene in front of his eyes made Piett's bile rise. His grave devastated, his body mutilated, Vader looked weak and vulnerable. And that truly was incompatible with Piett's worldview.

So he did his best to ignore it. He did not know under what situation Lord Vader had died. He did not know what feelings he had hidden behind his cold anger, nor what it was that had driven one person to give him a respectful - albeit secret - funeral and another to rob his grave.

He did, however, know Lord Vader as a military commander, perhaps better so than anyone else did since the death of Grand Moff Tarkin.

He snapped to attention in front of the pyre. “Farewell, my Lord. It has been an honour.”

It was little, but it was enough. It was all, in fact.

Piett retraced his steps and left the final resting place of Darth Vader to follow the masked stranger, uncertain about what to do, but determined to take some form of action nonetheless.  
~  
His positive mood was short-lived. He had not made it half of the way when the startlingly familiar form of a stormtrooper materialised in front of him. A second trooper walked up noisily from behind and pressed the muzzle of his weapon between Piett’s shoulder blades.

Piett froze at the sight. It was only thanks to his old familiarity with the situation, and long years of fearing something rather like this, that he had the presence of mind to raise his hands over his head.

Meanwhile, everything fell into place in his mind.

Try as he might to ignore the political affairs of the galaxy, word of the First Order had reached him.

He had, unavoidably, wondered what they were like these men - and women, surprisingly; the old Imperial military had had precious few of those – who were dedicated to bringing about a return of “the Empire’s former glory”.

So this was the First Order, it had to be. Piett had sleepily made his way here in search of his past and instead he had found its secrets and its legacy.

“Don’t move,” said the stormtrooper in front of him. She was a woman. Before he could stop himself Piett found himself looking her up and down for an indication of the fact. All he gained from his study was noticing some design differences between the new armour and the old one.

The other trooper was talking into his comlink, notifying their superior that they had discovered an intruder.

A third trooper joined them shortly after. A red shoulder pad denoting him or her as an officer. Piett prepared himself for a barrage of questions, instead the trooper officer – who turned out to be another woman – addressed her subordinates.

“Is he armed?”

“He has not yet been searched, ma’am,” said one of the troopers.

“Proceed.”

Piett meekly submitted himself to the process. He studied the three troopers in the meantime. They seemed different from the stormtroopers he had been used to, but he could not quite figure out how. He had not spent much time with the land troops back then after all.

Once he had been declared unarmed, Piett tried to explain why he was there. He was intent on telling the truth, or at least most of it. He had just opened his mouth when the officer cut him off.

“Shut up. Follow me.”

One of the other troopers got hold of his arms and handcuffed his hands behind his back. They did not shove him, but both fell into step at his sides. He went along, careful to keep his expression neutral.

After a short walk they reached the ruined base and the First Order’s ship. Now Piett noticed the mark on the ship’s body. He supposed they had been inspired by the Imperial crest, but to Piett it looked more like an explosion. Memories of the second Death Star’s destruction flashed in his mind. Given what these people claimed to stand for, Piett thought it was in rather poor taste.

There were more soldiers around the ship. Mostly armoured stormtroopers, but there were a pair of men in black uniforms. These too had been clearly designed in imitation of the Imperial uniforms. Piett had been expecting it, but he could not help a reaction. He had _worn_ uniforms like those for a good part of his life.

One of the uniformed officers walked over. Piett noticed the absence of rank insignia on his, or his colleague’s chest. The man was strikingly average. Of medium height and build, with brown hair, dark eyes and a forgettable face. Piett smiled internally in empathy for the man. 

He was also young. Very young. Or maybe it was just himself getting old. All young men looked like boys to him now.

“Yes, lieutenant?” the man said.

The trooper saluted. “Major, this man was found wandering the surrounding area. Not far from Ren’s location. He is unarmed.”

“Thank you, lieutenant, you are dismissed.”

He waved with his left arm as he sent the trooper back to her work. In doing so, he gave Piett a clear view of the embroidered band on the wrist of his uniform. It said simply: _PIETT_.

Piett felt his eyes go wide. He looked at the other officer. He also had a wristband but he was too far to read. Too many letters to be the same. The name of another Imperial officer?

He did not like it. He did not like it at all. What exactly was going on here? An attempt at recreating the Empire. That much was not surprising. However well the New Republic had been accepted by the general public, there were certain strata of society that were bound to be violently nostalgic.

But this took things too far. The armour, the uniforms, the ship… and Imperial officers as, presumably, rank insignia? These people were going out of their way to look like the old Imperial military, with only a token effort towards individuality. It was obvious now that the masked man was styling himself after Lord Vader, though he was not doing a very good job of it.

None of this felt familiar to Piett anymore. It was so obsessive it ended up being almost a mockery of the model. 

It made his skin crawl.

 _They’re fanatics_ , he realised. He had seen some fanatics in his day. Some of them within the Imperial military. They were scary people on their own, but a fanatical organisation... he repressed a shudder. The thought that these people were obsessing over and glorifying his life, his _job_ to further their dreams of conquest made him feel unclean. He wanted nothing to do with these people. Using his name as insignia like he had been some kind of hero! His own greatest achievement had been reaching a semi-functional working relationship with Lord Vader. A reason for personal pride, for sure, but hardly anyone’s business but his own.

_What do they think we were doing, back then? We were just soldiers, for fuck's sake!_

He had intended to have a mostly honest conversation with some officers, perhaps try to find out what the matter was with Lord Vader’s grave. But this was bigger. These… these _children_ were in over their heads and if they had half the power Piett had heard they did, they could do some serious damage in the galaxy. All in the name of something they did not understand.

 _That’s what really bothers you, isn’t it? That they’re abusing your past. You don’t care about what they can do_ , came the unbidden truth. It didn’t matter. This whole matter sickened him. He had to speak with this Ren.

He straightened his back and faced the major. He put on the face he used to wear when some boorish army officer would get in his face and try to pull rank on him.

The major got in his face. “Who are you?” he barked.

Piett calmly stared him down. “I need to speak with Ren. It is a matter of some urgency.”

The young man hesitated for a moment. Piett checked himself from rolling his eyes. _Children_.

“If you’re a messenger,” he said. “Why did you let yourself get arrested? And where is your documentation?”

In response, Piett raised an eyebrow to say ‘obviously I know something above your pay grade’. It was a gamble, but it was a fair bet that Ren was setting himself as the new Darth Vader. Back in the day, the thought that one might be hindering a secret agent of Lord Vader would have been enough to make the toughest officer break a sweat.

The major grew a shade paler and swallowed. “We’ll see what Ren has to say.”

He led Piett inside the ship. Even the inside was based on the old Lambda class, with one notable addition. They crossed the passenger area until they reached a door, just before the cockpit. The major touched a button on the control pad and the door opened. The room beyond was very small and plain. It only contained a seat, facing the entrance, and a raised surface next to it. Ren was standing there.

The young man looked as though he was about to be sick as they approached the tall figure. Ren was just replacing the lid on the box which contained Lord Vader’s helmet. Piett averted his eyes from it with some difficulty.

“What is it?” Ren asked. His voice came distorted through some device in the mask. An affectation in imitation of Lord Vader, Piett would not have been surprised to find out.

“Sir, this man was arrested in the forest. We found no documentation on him and he refused to tell us his name. He…” the young man hesitated. “He claims he needs to speak with you, sir.”

Ren’s mask focused sharply on Piett.

“You disturbed me for this?”

“Sir, I-I…”

Ren silenced the terrified major with a gesture of his arm and addressed Piett. “What are you doing here, old man? Who are you?”

Piett held his gaze for a moment, then he turned toward the major and pointedly nodded towards his left wrist.

Ren only tilted his head questioningly.

Piett sighed. “If you’re going to use people’s names as rank insignia, it would be appropriate for you to know their faces. Even thirty years and one death certificate later.”

The major took a look at his arm and then at Piett. His eyes went wide.

Ren had gone perfectly still. It was a while before he spoke. When he did, his voice was dripping sarcasm. “Are you really trying to tell me that you are former admiral Firmus Piett, who gloriously died above Endor, when his ship was destroyed by enemy fire?”

Piett grimaced. “There was nothing glorious about that battle or how the Lady went down, son. Let me tell you that. But yes, that is who I am.”

“So tell me, how did you escape?”

“With difficulty.”

Ren was silent again.

There was a sudden pressure inside Piett’s head. It hurt like every worst headache of his life put together. He could feel the external presence in his thoughts and he tried, in vain, to resist the pull. A string of memories from his military career surfaced to his mind.

The next thing he knew, he was hunched over, covered in sweat and breathing hard.

 _That_ was new. The crazed bastard had broken into his mind and browsed it at his leisure.

Fear got hold of him for a moment. Why get involved? Trying to reason with these people was a stupid idea. He would just get himself killed.

His eye fell on the box on the table.

No. This had to be done.

“So,” came Ren’s voice. “You were telling the truth. Remove his restraints. Then leave us,” he added to the major.

The young man’s hands were shaking but he obeyed. Piett and Ren found themselves alone.

The silence stretched uncomfortably, but Piett was hardly knew to this particular intimidation technique. He simply looked up at where he assumed Ren’s eyes to be and waited.

Ren was the first to speak. "I am willing to forget your comment on the battle of Endor. As well as to forgive your evident desertion. Join us. We will reforge the Empire. You belong with us."

The proposal caught Piett by surprise and he all but laughed in the man's face. "I would not accept even if you were actually offering me a fleet. But that's not what you're doing. If those wristbands are any indication you would parade me around, use me as a symbol, as a political tool. Forget it."

Ren nodded. "You live up to your reputation. Our records have you as being mostly absent from the political game. You're a military man. We will respect that. You will have your fleet.”

"No."

Ren looked at him for a long minute. When he spoke, his distorted voice was dangerous. "Why did you go into hiding?"

Piett was not intimidated. He spread his arms. "We had lost! The Emperor was dead. Lord Vader was dead. What was left for me to fight for?"

"The Empire had not lost yet. At Jakku-"

"At Jakku fought a bunch of power hungry bastards who agreed to join forces for a day with the full intent of going back to their mutual backstabbing right after the battle. I knew enough of high command politics to stay clear of that nonsense. If Lord Vader had been alive it would have been different, but..." He shrugged.

“What about your duty to the Empire?”

Piett gave a weary sigh. “What duty? I had a duty to my men and to Lord Vader. They were all dead, there was nothing left for me. I went home." He bowed his head. "Listen, I'm not proud of what I did. I do have a sense of honour, still. But that day… if you had been there you would understand. I know defeat when it's in front of me and that was it.” He suddenly felt tired again. Thirty years of disillusionment fell on him like a heavy blanket. “What are you going to do, anyway? Execute me for desertion?”

“I could. I should.”

Piett snorted. "No you couldn't. Oh, you could kill me alright, but you people are not the Empire nor its continuation. You don't have the authority to execute me under its laws." He paused. "Though I doubt you'd care. You think you know better I expect."

"Yes."

"Then why am I still breathing?"

The man was silent, but his helmet turned towards the closed door in a barely perceptible movement. It was possible Ren himself was not aware of it.

_If that major told the men about me then I’m already a symbol to them. They will not accept my murder easily. Is that really what’s stopping him?_

“Tell me something,” he said. “Do you think you’re the new Darth Vader?”

Ren barely hesitated. He reached for the container, opened it and, with reverent care, removed it contents.

He set Darth Vader’s fire-twisted helmet down on the surface, facing Piett.

Old habits and sudden emotion caught hold of the former admiral and Piett found himself straightening his back as he stared into the empty holes where those haunting dark lenses had once been.

Ren studied his reaction and, making sure he had Piett’s attention, reached up to remove his own mask.

The face behind it – unmarked - was that of a young man. _A boy_ , Piett could not help but think.

Ren set his own helmet next to Vader’s and said nothing.

Piett took another look at the relic before he took a deep breath and looked up at the young man. “That would be a yes, then?”

“I am here to continue his work,” said Ren. “I will lead the troops of the First Order to destroy the chaos running rampant the galaxy and return it to order. I am inspired by his glory. That is why I took this. It belongs with me. The memory of Darth Vader should rest in his legacy, not in that lie of a grave. I know you saw it, I felt your presence. It was his enemy who built it, did you know that? It was an attempt at killing the meaning of his life too, at belittling who he was. But I thwarted that. Darth Vader was an unstoppable force for the protection of order. I will make sure he will be remembered as such.”

Piett’s anger grew to fury. A glimmer of an old pride had been growing in him since he had set eyes on Vader’s body. The pride he had felt long ago fighting under a man who was as dangerous and erratic as he was great. Fighting next to him and knowing what it meant. That glimmer now sparked into a blazing fire and demanded action.

What this man was talking about was not Vader, it had never been Vader.

“You’re pathetic,” said Piett, without bothering to hide his anger and disgust.

For a split second Piett expected to feel the invisible vice around his throat. But it did not come. Instead Ren asked him, in a shaking voice: “Who do you think you are to talk to me like that?”

It was far too late for diplomacy. “Someone who knew the man you’re talking about.”

Before Piett could do more than blink, Ren had his lightsaber in his hand, the red glare was blinding for a moment. In two quick steps he went to the nearest wall and slashed his weapon at it. And again and again. He went on making glowing gashes in the durasteel before Piett’s astonished eyes. This was not the wrath of a dangerous man; this was a child throwing a tantrum! _Children! They really are children!_ And just like the same, after a few seconds of mindless destruction, Ren had regained enough composure to speak. Or at least shout.

“Knew him? KNEW HIM? He gave you orders and you said ‘Yes my Lord’! What makes you think you knew him?”

“What makes you think _you_ do? He died before your time, _I_ fought at his side for years! Everything you know about him has been spoon fed to you by bitter old men who couldn’t let go of the past. You can talk about your noble leader and fierce protector all you want, but that just was not him. What do you know about what he was like? You never had to follow his orders even when they made no sense. You did not see him searching the whole damn galaxy for one man, see his anger mount and mount as he made slaughter of allies and foes to feed his obsession. You were not there, with your own life in the balance when his target escaped him and _he did nothing_! You did not see him return from combat flanked by the awed looks of troopers and pilots. You never felt the hush that came on the bridge every time he strode in. You never saw the wounds he hid under his mask. You never had the certainty, the iron cast certainty, that he would lead you to victory. That, despite everything, under the anger and the hate and the madness was a great man whom you were lucky to serve.” At some point he had started shouting.

“I knew him. I knew his moods. I knew how far his anger could be tested. I knew when he had a plan and I knew when he had his back to the wall.

“You said being put on that pyre insulted and belittled him. I did not see that, I thought it honoured him. I’ll tell you what felt wrong. Seeing all his strength vanish whenever the Emperor was with him. Seeing his stance grow meek and his voice soft. That, boy, that was wrong.

“There was a sense of greatness that came from him very presence. We were all aware of it, we all took the fear as par for the course. We knew his ways and we accepted them, we adapted to them. We knew- ”

He trailed off, his thoughts too fast for his mouth. And one look at Ren told him he had failed. Ren had been watching him quietly the whole time. Now he was shaking with rage and his eyes spelled murder.

Piett was not surprised. He might remember what it had been like to serve under Lord Vader. But it was a feeling that was impossible to explain to one who had never met him.

Ren’s voice was very low and very dangerous. Or it would have been to someone else. To Piett he just sounded angry and powerless.

“You are an ungrateful, ignorant old man,” he said. “Get out and be thankful you get to do so on your two feet.”

Piett stared back at him, defeated. The fate of the galaxy was in the hands of deluded children and he could not change that. He sighed and turned to Vader’s helmet.

_I did what I could, my Lord._

He gave the relic a slow nod. Then he turned away and walked back outside, without paying Ren any more attention.

When the door shut behind him, Piett was shaking with frustration. To have his pride reawakened and thrown back at him on the same day was too much.

_Maybe I should have just stayed at home. Let the past die._

But even as he thought it he realised he did not mean it. As demoralising and worrisome as the encounter with Ren had been, he could not help but be glad that he had been able to catch a glimpse of what Lord Vader's end had been. And to remember the past and feel young again.

_But idolised and misunderstood by a dangerous band of children... what a thing to have in common, my Lord._

"Uh, sir?" A voice shook Piett from his thoughts. The young major was standing next to him, looking very nervous and very excited at the same time. "Forgive me, sir. I have orders to escort you back to your transport. Immediately." He added apologetically.

Piett repressed a sigh and simply gestured for the young man to lead the way. If the major was uncomfortable treating him like a security risk, all the better. He was not going to help him with that.

"May I ask you a question, major?" Piett asked after a long time walking in silence.

The major hesitated. "Uh... That is- sir-"

"A personal question."

The young man relaxed. "Of course, sir."

"Why are you here? In the First Order?"

Piett may as well have saved his breath for the answer he received. The major launched himself into a speech about the evils of the New Republic and the need to restore order to the galaxy and how the First Order had taken on that noble duty. Or something to that effect at any rate. Piett lost track a couple of sentences in and gave up trying to follow the rest of what was clearly a speech learned by heart. Even though, by the earnest look on the man’s face, he may not have realised so himself.

Piett let him finish for effect, since the major was all but doing his job for him. And also because he would not have been able to get a word in, the major was talking so fast.

Once he had finished, Piett just stared at him. The major looked back at him in confusion. "Sir?"

“I know recruitment propaganda when I hear it, lad. It’s always the same trite shit. I asked about you, specifically, what are you fighting for?"

"I fight for order. For Supreme Leader Snoke and his noble goal,” the major answered. He even drew himself up. 

Piett barely managed to keep a straight face. _Just in case I needed further proof, he thought. Bloody fanatics_. "Restoring the glory of the Empire, right?"

"Exactly!" The boy was practically glowing.

Piett sighed. "Son. Listen to me. The Empire was what we had. So we fought for it. Not to bring some final order to the galaxy. Not for glory. Had it still been the Republic, we would have fought for that instead. We fought for our homes or just to keep breathing.

“Now, you lot can tell yourselves you're saving the galaxy all you want, maybe you are or maybe you're just causing trouble. Honestly I don't care. But I would appreciate it if you left me, my old friends and my men out of it all. Because we were just soldiers, not the glorious heroes you make us out to be, pinning our names on your uniforms. And where is _your_ glory, anyway? Can you honestly tell me that when you see that deluded little commander of yours you feel inspired?"

The man cast a nervous glance behind him, towards the ship. As though he expected Ren to hear what he would answer.

"There! You see?” Piett said without waiting for a reply. “You're just scared of him. Now Vader, he had real strength! He was a leader you could be proud to follow. Terrified of him though we were, there was hardly a soldier who would not have followed him to the end of the universe.” Piett allowed himself a sigh of nostalgia.

The young man’s eyes had lit up with excitement at the mention of Lord Vader and now they were burning with eagerness and envy.

Piett pressed him. “Can you understand what I mean?”

The major’s face fell slowly and he looked at his feet, frowning as he sorted through his thoughts. He hesitated a couple of times. “I am proud of where I stand, sir,” he said eventually, looking up. His voice was cracked and his hands fidgety. The boy was lying. To himself more than to Piett. 

Piett held his gaze for a moment. He grunted in acknowledgement, but said nothing. He turned away and walked on in silence. He could all but sense the young major’s mental struggle behind him.

When they reached Piett’s transport, the major took his leave hastily before he spun on his heels and walked away, clearly eager to be alone. But after a few steps he stopped and faced Piett. After a moment’s hesitation he snapped to attention and saluted. 

“It has been an honour to meet you, sir,” he said. “And… and thank you.”

Piett nodded at him.

The major walked back towards his post and Piett climbed into his ship and let himself sink into his seat.

He sat for a long moment with his head too full to think. In that floating state, the absurdity of what had happened hit him so suddenly he nearly burst out laughing.

He went through the day’s events in his mind, trying to find some meaning in them. It proved to be a fruitless effort. All he gained for his trouble was for that bone deep weariness he had just managed to shake off to threaten to come back and hold him tighter than ever.

He shook his head. There was no point in trying to give a sense to life. He had figured out that much long ago. When all was said and done, he was glad he had come. He had found some closure with his past – some of which very much unexpected – and his heart felt lighter. Best to take that and leave. He and the world had been managing fine ignoring each other for the past three decades, they could carry on that way.

He had planted the seed of doubt in that young man. Doubt was a dangerous thing in a soldier; Piett knew that well. It could be enough.

It could be enough.


End file.
